Time You Earned Respect
by Victoire Lupin
Summary: What was Rufus Scrimgeour thinking on the night he was killed? DH spoilers, oneshot. My first story on here, so sorry if it sucks... R&Rs greatly appeciated!


Disclaimer- I in no way, shape, or form, own any part of the characters or world J.K. Rowling has so brilliantly created.

**Time You Earned Respect**

Scrimgeour was sitting at his desk, frowning. A quill bent sharply between his fingers as he attempted, for the twentieth time that evening, to puzzle out what on earth Dumbledore meant, bequeathing, through his will, strange presents on three teenagers.

The teenagers in question- Ronald Weasley, Hermione Granger, and Harry Potter; the Boy Who Lived- hadn't been much help. He had called at the Burrow yesterday, but hadn't been given any hints about the significance of the gifts. In fact, Potter had been downright pigheaded, refusing again to help the Ministry, in any way, shape, or form. His friends had not been so vocal, but had obviously felt the same way.

His friends. That was the thing that really puzzled the Minister. Potter, obviously, had survived He-Who-Must-Not-be-Named's Killing Curse at age one, and Miss Granger had extremely rare intellect- both his meeting with her and her school records proved that- but it was Ronald Weasley who had received the most valuable gift, Dumbledore's own Deluminator. Why was it that the boy with painfully average marks and no hint of extraordinary abilities got the gift most Unspeakables would sacrifice both legs to examine? Miss Granger had just been given a children's book, a book with no hidden message- apparently. Potter had been given an old Snitch. Dumbledore had tried to give him Gryffindor's sword, but, he reassured himself for what was decidedly not the first time, it was a very important historical artifact- the wizarding world _needed _to collectively own it. Potter had not agreed.

Potter…

But before he could embark on yet another mental rant about the boy, he was interrupted by a BANG! as his office door flew open. Standing outside his room was Pius Thicknesse, the head of Magical Law Enforcement.

Scrimgeour stood up, drawing his wand from his pocket roughly. It only took a glance to see that Thicknesse was Imperiused. And the half-a-dozen cloaked figures flanking him told him more clearly than words who had been behind it.

The figures had their masks off, and they were all escapees from Azkaban. Dolohov, Lestrange, Shunpike… Fear and shock surged through him. He packed his terror into a tiny corner of his mind, allowed adrenaline to course through him, until he felt almost giddy. He raised his wand, opened his mouth-

And then his wand was flying away, towards the rapidly parting crowd at the door; they were parting for _him_- for Voldemort.

His carefully controlled emotions disappeared- nothing but blank shock remained.

The Dark Lord faced him. They seemed complete opposites, as though from different worlds, facing each other; the tawny, surly, abrupt Auror, and the pale, red-eyed being, with vertical pupils and slits for nostrils; with liquid grace, like a snake, which so mesmerized his followers.

Voldemort raised his wand. "Where is Potter?" he whispered. "We know you saw him yesterday."

Scrimgeour hesitated a moment. He certainly feared what the most evil wizard of all time would do to him- but he would not be disloyal. "I will not tell you," he answered simply.

"Crucio!"

It was torture as he had never experienced before; the glee with which Voldemort caused pain seemed to take the agony to a terrifying new level. He was burning alive, writhing and crying out-

And then, suddenly, unexpected relief. Voldemort looked at him thoughtfully. "That was barely anything, _Minister_. Tell me where Harry Potter is, and I'll make your death swift and painless."

He couldn't help it- the pain had been too great, the name was going to slip off his tongue.

And then, just as he really thought he was going to tell Voldemort where to find the boy who, to many people, symbolized the only hope against this unspeakable evil-

He recalled the last exchange between Potter and himself.

"_It's time you learned some respect!"_

"_Time you earned it."_

He would earn some respect, finally, even if it was the last thing he did. It was time to make up for his stupidity, for locking innocent people up in Azkaban and keeping the public, _his people, _in the dark…

"You underestimate me," he whispered.

Voldemort's red eyes blazed. "Then- CRUCIO!"

Scrimgeour was screaming now, screaming in earnest, his joints were being ripped apart, knife after knife was pounding through his body, his eyes were being ripped from their sockets, oh please, just end it now, I'll earn their respect, I owe Harry and my country that much, but let me die soon, I shall earn respect…

And there was, for a second time, a blessed reprieve. Scrimgeour lay on the floor, shaking and repeating the word _respect_ over and over to himself. He had screamed so much his throat was bleeding; he could taste the metallic saltiness.

"Once more… tell me!" Voldemort commanded, eyes glowing in his bloodless face.

Scrimgeour sat there a moment, feeling blood pool in his mouth. Then he sat up, and spat his bright crimson blood at the figure standing in front of him.

Voldemort was saying the Killing Curse, but it didn't matter any more. As the green light raced closer and closer, he didn't feel anything but peace. His work was over, his wrongs were forgiven.

He had earned respect.

And, lying on his office floor, battered, bruised, but triumphant, Rufus Scrimgeour died.


End file.
